


in nomine

by lastembers (ladydaredevil)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, Names, character study I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 11:22:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20063206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydaredevil/pseuds/lastembers
Summary: His third name isn’t much different from the second, but it’shis.





	in nomine

__

This is how he gets his second name:

In the overheated, overcrowded darkness of Hell, _after_, he almost gets stepped on. 

He hasn’t quite gotten the hang of this new form yet – it’s disorienting, down here. He can’t see the stars. Can’t see much of anything, really, so close to the ground.

Someone says _watch it, crawly_, and it sticks.

They call themselves princes and dukes, the others, but it doesn’t change the fact that they’ve all lost.

He’s had his share of warfare and so doesn’t bother trying to claw his way up in the hierarchy. But his new form can get into tight corners and go unnoticed, so he listens, and waits.

He will not be trapped for eternity.

(His first name, the one the Almighty gave him, had been _celestial_. It had resonated in the night sky as he worked, the nebulas and stars and planets he’d shaped clamouring for his attention. The mere thought of it _hurts_ now, down to his core.) 

After the bit with the apple and the garden, he meets the angel of the Eastern Gate. Somewhat unexpectedly, Crawly doesn’t hate him. Not this one, who genuinely worries about the humans, who shields even a demon from mild unpleasantness without a second thought.

He calls him _angel _anyway_, _because it’s been a long time since he’s addressed anyone in a way that wasn’t at least somewhat derogatory. 

The jab goes unnoticed, or at least unacknowledged.

His exploits are rewarded with a promotion and yet another exile. It’s not much of a surprise: he’s too clever to keep around, but too useful to kill. Still, he won’t complain, as Earth _is_ considerably better than Hell. Though that isn’t saying much; the humans have really taken that sword and run with it.

He wonders if the angel feels guilty about that, sometimes, or if he’s proud of everything that’s been built since Eden. For all that they’re officially Adversaries, now (for his counterpart, it definitely hadn’t been a promotion), he tolerates Crawly’s presence. Crawly is perhaps overly pleased with the situation, as he can’t think of someone whose extended company he would dislike less. Whether he’s been forgiven or the angel is simply very lonely he doesn’t know, and doesn’t particularly care.

His third name isn’t much different from the second, but it’s _his. _There’s no one around to bestow it upon him, this time, accidentally or otherwise. The first time he signs a report as _Crowley _(he is fairly certain that no one reads them, but he also knows that if he did not send them, there would be Hell to pay), he feels a small thrill and wonders if that’s what freedom feels like – if so, maybe he understands why humans are so enamoured with the concept.

The angel accepts the change with a shrug, like it’s one of what he likes to call Crowley’s “eccentricities”, by which he generally means any and all attempts at blending in with the local culture. It takes him a few centuries to stop slipping up – if the angel is anything, it’s slow to change – but as they settle into their Arrangement, and for the next millennium, that is what Aziraphale calls him.

(_Aziraphale _tastes like ashes at the back of his mouth. He still says it, sometimes. When he forgets himself, or when he is determined not to care. He sticks to _angel_, for the most part.)

He uses a number of aliases over the centuries, of course, to go along with skin tones and gender presentations, but _Crowley_ is for the things that matter. He adds a few elements to it in the late nineteenth century; humans like to complicate things, and there are so many of them now that they need more than one name to differentiate each other. He likes the way _Anthony_ rolls off his tongue, and throws in a _J_. for good measure. It feels – different. Mundane, yes, but also extraordinary. Demons do not have first names, or initials. Crowley has never been like the others, but time on Earth has only served to make it more obvious. And Hell has never been anything that could be mistaken for _tolerant_. Sooner or later, his little acts of rebellion will have consequences. He can only hope he will be ready to face them. If he plays his cards right, he thinks, he may have an ally.

The first time he is called _dear, _he almost discorporates on the spot from the shock. It’s an unfortunate habit Aziraphale’s picked up since they’ve settled in London, calling everyone and anyone by affectionate nicknames – it comes across as somewhat paternalistic and overly familiar, most of the time. It’s made more than one of the bookshop’s patrons storm out in a huff, to Crowley’s delight, which, now that he thinks about it, might have been intentional. But the angel doesn’t call _Crowley _that. Not until they’re deep into a case of excellent red wine, and Aziraphale has polished off the plate of baklavas Crowley has brought him as a souvenir from a quick trip to Morocco. _Thank you my dear, those were scrumptious_, he says. _The best I’ve had since the Ottoman Empire collapsed_. Not until he does, voice tinged with fondness, and it doesn’t feel condescending at all.

Aziraphale has always been _Angel _to him, though it hasn’t had anything to do with Crowley’s commitment to rudeness in centuries. It had been fairly neutral, for a while – more of a statement than anything, and a form of address that didn’t make Crowley feel like he’d chugged the contents of an ash tray. And then – then the humans had forgotten what angels were really like. Had started to use the word to refer to their loved ones, as if angels were _sweet _and c_aring _and _good_. Crowley only knows one angel who fits the criteria, and even he can be a right bastard (which is, admittedly, part of his charm). After the initial outrage, he’d shrugged it off and kept on using the nickname. What did it matter, what humans thought? It wasn’t like Crowley meant it in the sickeningly sweet sense of the term. Not most of the time, anyway.

After the world doesn’t end, and a quick turn as each other, things mostly go back to normal. Aziraphale busies himself with tracking down the parts of his collection that have gone missing when Adam remade the world, and Crowley – Crowley’s still figuring things out. 

Things have shifted, between them, since the trials. Since they are truly on their own. There’s no going back, not to Hell and certainly not to Heaven. But they have faced their greatest fears – or, technically, each other’s – and come out ahead, _together_. 

That sort of thing makes a demon reassess his relationships.

(When the bookshop had burned, he’d screamed and screamed, and everything had tasted like ashes. He doesn’t mind it anymore. He would suffer much worse to get an answer when he calls out _Aziraphale_.)

It isn’t that he wants to _change _what they are. Their relationship is, if he’s honest with himself, the best thing that’s happened to him in all of his long existence.

But Aziraphale is more carefree now, casually affectionate in a way he never let himself be, and Crowley is, by nature, greedy.

The change, when it comes, is small. Like a letter in a name, just because they can.

Crowley naps away warm afternoons in the angel’s lap as he reads, fingers combing through his hair absentmindedly. He sets up accounts on rare books dealers’ websites to help Aziraphale track down his missing treasure. They hold hands through their walks in the park.

_Darling, _Aziraphale says. _Should we go for sushi tonight?_

_Sure, angel. Whatever you like. _


End file.
